A Second Helping of Murder and Recipes: A Hot Dish Heaven Mystery by Jeanne Cooney Page B

enough to feel stronger. More put together. A swipe of mascara on my lashes and some blush along my freckled cheekbones. Then another attempt at taming my curls. But even when feeling strong, I’m no match for my hair, and I soon called it quits.
    I straightened my bed covers, brushed my teeth, and checked my phone. No calls. From anyone. Not even Randy. I did, however, have another text from Boo-Boo. I deleted it without so much as a glance. Nonetheless, worry tripped along my spine. I should have been able to dissuade him by now. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I get him to leave me alone? I’d have to try harder. And I would. As soon as I returned to Minneapolis.
    Chasing Boo-Boo from my thoughts, I switched off the lamp and headed downstairs, the stairs creaking, old and achy, beneath me. While still upset with Randy for what he must have said about me to Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, I found myself eager to see him and, if completely honest, a little disappointed he hadn’t reached out to me.
    With a toss of my head, I shook off my discontent and hopefully the insecurities that incited it. I was being silly. There was no reason to hear from him. Our plans were made. He’d be back in the afternoon, and I’d see him then. As Margie routinely said about almost everything, “That should be good enough.”
     
    *   *   *
     
    As I entered the café , I discovered the lights on, yet the place itself empty. Margie’s voice echoed from the middle room, but I opted to postpone joining her until after an infusion of coffee. Yes, Margie’s coffee was notoriously weak, but it was sixty miles to the nearest Starbucks. And on this particular morning, the trip would require a dog sled, which I’d left at home, next to my winter jacket, gloves, and head-bolt heater.
    In the kitchen, I claimed a standard restaurant-style coffee cup from the shelf above the sink before twirling around and nearly smacking into Buddy Johnson. He stood directly in front of me, only inches away. I yelped and dropped the cup.
    “Mornin’,” he said. His hair was tousled. His eyes were sleepy. And his naturally sun-kissed cheeks were covered in a whisker shadow. I had to remind myself to breath—but not to pant. The man was definitely too handsome for anyone’s good.
    He stooped to pick up my cup and its broken handle, tossing both into a nearby trash can. Next, he grabbed two mugs from the shelf. “Sorry if I scared you.” With a heavy-lidded gaze, he offered me one of the mugs.
    “Umm . . . no, you . . . I mean yes, you . . .” I seized the mug and clutched it to my chest. “Umm . . . no, that’s not right. I mean no, you didn’t scare me. And . . . umm . . . yes, thanks for the cup.”
    Hey, Emme, that was almost as smooth as when you learned to drive a stick shift.
    I think I actually heard the voices in my head high-five one another over that little joke.
    “Shut up,” I mumbled.
    “Excuse me?” It was Buddy. Thankfully he had moved to the coffee station out front, in the dining section of the cafe. “Did you say something?” His voice was slightly raised so I could hear him.
    “Umm . . . no.”
    He stepped back into the kitchen, the coffee pot extended. “Want to finish this off?”
    “Yeah . . . umm . . . thanks.”
    He poured the last of the coffee into my mug and set the pot on the metal prep table. He grabbed a stool and motioned me to follow suit. “I was surprised to see you here last night,” he said. “I didn’t know you were coming up.”
    “Well . . . umm . . .” I sat down. “Well . . . umm . . . we’re doing another funeral-food spread, so . . . umm . . . I needed more of Margie’s recipes.”
    He chuckled. “That could be interesting considering this new kick she’s on. ‘Expanding her horizons’ and all.”
    “Uh-huh.” This wasn’t going well. I had to apologize. And I had to do it soon. It was the only way to restore my self-respect and, with it, my ability to think and speak. Sure,